My Words

The Spark

There’s nothing tougher than a blank page
And the war you wage to fill it.
The topic should flow but sometimes it’s forced
And they’re the worst.
It’s not a block per say and you have the time
But the rhyme is elusive;
Hiding behind the words you write
While trying to be creative.
The poet is merely the medium
Taking inspiration from things around:
Some overheard words, a scene, a look,
The name of a book, a newspaper story, the cut of a blouse.
Anything – that allows the words to flow
For what starts slow becomes a rush
As the words push out and fill the page,
A temper rage that you can’t control,
A rich poetic-waterfall,
Your fingers fast-type while the idea’s still ripe,
Blossoming faster than you can compute
And you bleed that spark until all goes dark.

The waterfall becomes a wadi
But you’ve got the story on the page,
You’re not quite sure how but it’s no longer blank
And for which you give thanks.